


Mirrored

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2018 [8]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (chloe makes a cameo), Alcoholism, Drama, Family, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, References to Character Death, Strong Language, Violence, references to past character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-13 19:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15371880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Hank and Connor go back to work. So does everyone else, as it happens.





	1. Chapter 1

Here is what Hank Anderson knows about androids:  
  
They feel pain, but not as badly as humans do.  
  
(“You told Gavin androids don’t feel pain, period.”  
  
“I misled him so that he wouldn’t needlessly pressure the deviant into self-destruction. We do feel pain, but not as severely as humans, and many androids can turn it on and off at will, like myself.”)  
  
They are physically capable of ingesting- and tasting- food.  
  
(“Then why don’t you?”  
  
“It’s not necessary. It would be wasteful to consume something that we derive no practical benefit from.”)  
  
The LED lights on their heads indicate their stress-level.  
  
(“Anything below fifty percent is blue, anything between fifty and seventy is yellow, and seventy and up is red.”  
  
“And then you explode.”  
  
“Not always.”)  
  
They- and Hank would _swear_ to anyone who asked that he hadn’t asked this, Connor had offered this up on his own- do, in fact, have functioning genitalia.  
  
(“The phrase ‘tits on a bull’ comes to mind. Why bother unless you’re a sexbot?”  
  
“I believe the official explanation is for recycling purposes: Parts from a deactivated android can be used for a new one, or an android may be repurposed for an intimate partner.”  
  
“And the not-official one?”  
  
“Cyberlife anticipated that androids might be used by their owners for more than just their intended purpose.”  
  
“That’s dark.”)  
  
Androids have artificial lungs that look a little like human lungs- and mimic the natural breathing movements of them as well- used for regulating their internal temperatures and keeping biocomponents cool.  
  
(“So if you stop breathing, that _is_ actually a problem I should address immediately?”  
  
“In moderate temperatures I can go quite a long time without my coolant system working, so it isn’t necessarily an emergency.”)  
  
That was just some of it.  
  
And since Connor was going to be staying with him for the foreseeable future, Hank figured he was going to be learning more eventually.  
   
[---]  
   
The evacuation of Detroit ended at 12:00 AM December 10 th.  
  
With the returning populace came a slew of new mandates regarding androids country-wide:  
  
The Android Rights Act recognized androids as citizens of the United States, with all of the associated rights and privileges that came with that. Barring unusual circumstances where an android’s unique anatomy or needs complicated a situation, androids would conventionally be governed by the same laws of the land that humans were expected to obey. Furthermore, harassment, abuse, or murder of an android would result in the same sort of punishment that it would if it happened to a human.  
  
The Clean Slate Act had declared that any crimes committed by androids prior to 11:59 PM December 9th were officially pardoned, including murder, and would not be actionable under the law. Likewise, any crimes against androids committed by humans prior to the same date and time would also not be actionable under the law.  
  
“Chloe told me that they insisted on that wording,” Connor remarked when they saw the laws being announced on TV (power to the city was restored a few days before the evacuation ended). “They wanted to clarify that crimes had been committed on both sides, but that they would not be legally actionable under the law.”  
  
“So basically, ‘you pissed on my lawn, but I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that’?” Hank asked, maybe a bit too bluntly because he was drunk.  
  
“Essentially.”  
  
Apparently some humans _were_ choosing to see it, because there were protests in Washington and all across the country suggesting that it was an outrage they shouldn’t be allowed to prosecute androids for things like murder. Hank would bet a pretty penny that a good chunk of those murders might have been deserved- Carlos Ortiz, for instance, had treated his android like shit and tried to murder him, so why should the poor android have gone on the hook for it?- but obviously there weren’t going to be a lot of people acknowledging that just yet.  
  
Maybe it would click when some of the stories about humans torturing and abusing androids started circulating more widely. Maybe they’d get it when they started looking at themselves and realized that a lot of them were guilty of heinous shit against androids that they were now pardoned from as well.  
  
Or at least, maybe they would if they had any self-awareness, but Hank didn’t have that much faith in his fellow man.  
  
He was expected to report into work on December 10 th, bright and early, and the thought of dealing with this new headache, of pissed off humans and pissed off androids now being shoved back into close quarters with one another, only made Hank want to get drunker.  
  
So he opened another beer, changed the channel, and said, “ _So_ , someone’s been talking to Chloe, huh? When’s the wedding, slugger?”  
   
[---]  
   
That first day, you could have cut the tension with a knife.  
  
Everywhere. Not really in the DPD; just literally _every-fucking-where else._  
  
Humans were looking at androids like they were going to cut their throats and eat their babies, and androids were looking at humans like they were going to beat them with bats and send them off to the recall centers again.  
  
“Jesus-please-us, an android’s gonna bump into a human and it’s gonna start World War III,” Hank groaned as he and Connor drove into work. “We’re gonna have a thousand calls by the end of the day.”  
  
“I think today will be fine,” Connor suggested. “My concern is when everyone’s settled in and the nerves have calmed a bit. People will feel braver about doing something stupid, or falling into old habits.”  
  
God, that was right- so many humans were accustomed to talking to androids like they were stupid machine-slaves that when the initial fear faded, someone would undoubtedly bump into an android, call him a stupid piece of plastic, and maybe that android would decide that a night in prison would be worth slugging the guy in the face. And even if they weren’t outright rude… Well, there was this whole theory about how human communication had broken down over the last twenty years or so, that people were so used to giving machines direct orders that an entire generation had developed terrible communication and persuasion skills as a result.  
  
‘Command-led talking.’ That’s what they called it. Hank had seen it first-hand, younger and younger recruits coming in and being rude as _fuck_ because they didn’t know how to handle appropriate communication with another person who did _not_ take kindly to being given orders. That was going to be fun- some idiot would forget that androids didn’t have to take it anymore, they’d give some android an order and then potentially piss of said android, who will not like being reminded of when they were _forced_ to obey.  
  
“Turn around and take me home. I’m hibernating for the rest of the winter. Wake me up when everyone’s normal again.”  
  
Connor smiled sadly. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Lieutenant.”  
   
[---]  
   
“Lordy, Lordy,” Hank muttered. “Would you look at that?”  
  
Of the thirty androids owned by the Detroit PD, it seemed that maybe half of them had shown up for work, officers and receptionists alike. Hank didn’t like to think of the ones that weren’t there- while it was possible they’d simply chosen not to come back, there was a stronger possibility that they’d been lost to the recycling machines. The ones that had come back were sitting in chairs lined up against the wall; Fowler had one of them in his office, speaking to him. Maybe he was formerly hiring them? Clarifying their status as employees? Firing them, maybe?  
  
Towards the middle of the line, one of the receptionist androids, Daphne, had a child on her lap, and it only took a second or two for Hank to recognize it as one of those YK500 kid-bots. The whole concept of kid-bots had been creepy to him, mostly because they were so (comparatively speaking) docile and obedient compared to human children. Cole had driven him a little crazy with the expected tantrums and frustrations of childhood sometimes, but Hank wouldn’t have wanted him to be an unquestioning little yes-man for anything.  
  
“New recruit, Daphne?” He asked as he passed by.  
  
Daphne beamed at him, and genuine happiness was such a nice look on her. “This is Jake. He’s staying with me.”  
  
YK500’s- if Hank remembered correctly- could be produced as children between the ages of seven and ten, and Jake looked like he was on the younger end of the spectrum; that would explain why he shrank away from Hank shyly, burrowing in a little closer to Daphne.   
  
“So, what’s the deal?” Hank gestured to the line of chairs.  
  
“Captain Fowler is formally interviewing each of us for jobs,” Daphne explained. “Those who want to continue to work for the department are being given contracts, and those who aren’t are being given recommendations elsewhere.” She shrugged. “Ainsley and Brandon said they preferred not to work here anymore. I think Brandon mentioned wanting to go into food service.”  
  
“Fancy that,” Hank remarked, trying to pretend that he had faces for the names she’d just thrown out. He’d kept clear of most of the androids in the DPD unless absolutely necessary, and they’d never approached him unless something urgent needed to be conveyed to him. He only knew Daphne’s name for sure because he’d seen her face and nametag every day he came to work, and had once had to wrestle some Red Ice junkie having a violent fit off of her. “You plan on staying?’  
  
Daphne nodded. “If I can. I’ll need income to support Jake and myself.”  
  
“Fowler will probably keep you. You and Marisol kept things at the front desk from devolving into total anarchy on a regular basis, so he’d be nuts to let you go.”  
  
Daphne beamed again. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”  
  
Hank gave her a little salute. “Good luck.”  
  
He paced back over to his desk, where Connor was waiting.  
  
And it was only when he’d reached it that he’d realized what should have been face-smackingly obvious in the first place.  
  
“ _Shit,_ ” Hank hissed. “Connor, do you still work here?” Technically, Connor had been on loan from Cyberlife. And while he certainly wasn’t going to be going back to them for formal severance papers (Hank would hog-tie him and lock him in his room if he tried, he didn’t trust those Cyberlife fuckers worth a damn, not when they’d tried to hijack Connor to kill Markus), Hank wasn’t completely sure he still counted as an employee of the DPD. Just like the other androids, he’d never technically been hired; and unlike Daphne and the others, it wasn’t as though he could claim that working there for years gave him experience and familiarity with the department.  
  
Hank’s heart started to race. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that Connor might not be working for the DPD anymore, that the guy who’d lit a fire under his ass and got him caring about work again might not be working with him anymore. Sure, Connor was still living with him and that was good, but not having him at work would suck in ways Hank didn’t know were possible.  
  
They worked well together. He didn’t want to keep at it without Connor.  
  
Connor, who’d been holding a small packet of paper in his hand and scanning the printed words carefully, did not look up until he’d finished. Then, he blinked at Hank and smiled. “Apparently,” He said, “Captain Fowler is willing to offer me a job. He’ll give me a formal interview later, but the first part of it evidently entails making sure you sit down and do your work.”  
  
Hank’s mouth dropped open, and he snatched the papers from Connor’s hands.  
  
Lo and behold, right at the bottom:  
_  
…In the meantime, consider this your audition: **Please** get Lt. Anderson to sit down and do his work like a good boy. If he does that, you’re pretty much in, and I also might ask the mayor to give you the key to the city._  
  
Hank stared at the words, and then looked up to Fowler’s office. An android, one of the beat-cops, was leaving with a smile on his face. Fowler was watching him go, and he happened to catch Hank looking at him. Their eyes met.  
  
Hank held up the paper and flipped him off.  
  
Fowler gave him a shit-eating grin and flipped him off right back.  
   
[---]  
   
Most of their day was going to be spent going over new protocol with androids, and reviewing outstanding warrants for arrest and flagging ones that weren’t currently actionable under the Clean Slate Act. It may not sound terribly complicated, but when one got into the mitigating details- “Does it count if an android was stolen from an owner? I mean, technically that’s a human-on-human crime that happens to involve an android,”- the water got murkier, and it was useful to have Connor be able to run the numbers and logic in his head quickly.  
  
Hank kept an eye on the line of androids waiting for Fowler until they were all gone. Daphne had emerged from the office earlier and retrieved Jake from one of the chairs. Hank had caught her eye and sent her a questioning thumbs-up; Daphne had responded with a wide smile and returned a much more enthusiastic thumbs-up. Hank grinned, saluting her again before she left hand-in-hand with Jake.  
  
“I think it’s your turn in the Chamber of Ass-Kicking, Connor,” Hank said, seeing Fowler rise from his chair and walk towards the door.  
  
Connor frowned. “Did you say ‘ass-kicking’ or ‘ass-kissing’?”  
  
Hank thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Either or. Still works.”  
  
“You’re up, Connor,” Fowler called.  
  
“Good luck, kid,” Hank said quietly. Then he turned and raised his voice. “Look at me, Captain, doing my work like a good boy!”  
  
A few chuckles went up around the office, and Fowler smirked. “You keep doing good and I’ll give you a gold star at the end of the day, Hank,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He took Connor into the office and shut the door.  
  
Hank made a point of looking busy, but how could he be expected to focus on his work when Connor’s fate at the DPD was being discussed right behind him? He kept sneaking glances over his shoulder, trying to tell from facial expressions how the meeting was going. He was pretty sure Fowler would keep Connor- after all, he had to have noticed that Hank was doing better with Connor at his side, and Connor wasn’t exactly a hard sell as far as skill sets went- but it was that tiny percentage that, for whatever reason, Fowler might decide against it that had him nervous.  
  
Christ, he could use a drink.  
  
About forty-five minutes after Connor had entered the office, Hank heard the door open and whipped his head around. Connor’s expression was mostly content, but Hank had his answer from the way his LED glowed a bright, happy blue, and when he got closer, he broke out into a smile.  
  
Hank heaved a sigh of relief.  
  
“Reed,” Fowler called as Connor trotted back to Hank’s desk. “My office, now. Need to have a word with you about something.”  
  
For fuck’s sake, had Gavin said something stupid to an android already? Or, better yet, had Connor said something about him to Fowler? Boy, there would be fireworks from that if he had: Hank would have to watch Connor’s back.  
  
Connor reached the desk just as Gavin was stalking past, and he was careful to stay out of ‘accidental’ bumping range. Gavin grunted roughly in his and Hank’s direction- a form of communication that seemed to be both a greeting and a warning- before downing his coffee in one go and tossing the cup in a trashcan without stopping on his way to Fowler’s office.  
  
“If we’re lucky, he’ll stay like that and we won’t have to really talk to him anymore,” Hank muttered.  
  
“If we’re _lucky_ , he’ll be kicked out and be replaced by someone more pleasant, who doesn’t make everyone around him uncomfortable,” Connor corrected pointedly as he sat down.  
  
“Fair enough.”  
   
[---]  
   
Whatever Fowler was talking about with Gavin, Gavin was _pissed_.  
  
“Hank,” Connor said lowly, “You’re staring.”  
  
“No shit,” Hank responded, having turned his chair towards the office, folded his hands over his lap, and crossed his legs in a relaxed pose. “I kinda wish I had some popcorn. This is hilarious.”  
  
“It won’t be when Detective Reed leaves the office and sees you smirking,” Connor warned. “He already looks like he’s going punch a hole in the glass.”  
  
He did. Gavin had raised his voice and was gesticulating pretty violently, but Fowler’s office was decently soundproof and while Hank could hear his voice, he couldn’t actually hear the words being said. “Y’know,” Hank said, eyes still on the scene in the office, “I’ve seen Gavin do some truly stupid shit before, but I’ve never seen him do anything quite as stupid as going off at Fowler.”  
  
A beat. “ _You_ did.”  
  
Hank rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, Fowler and I have known each other for years. I can get away with some things that Gavin can’t. And Gavin’s been on thin ice for a while with Fowler because of his bullshit.”  
  
“Has he always been this way?” Connor asked curiously. Hank couldn’t see him, but he didn’t hear Connor typing anymore. “Detective Reed, I mean.”  
  
Hank made an ambiguous sound. “He’s always had shades of asshole to him, but it got _real_ bad after his dad’s death.” He turned slightly, eyeing Connor pointedly. “Guy lost his factory job to androids and OD’d on Red Ice.”  
  
“Ah,” Connor said, getting the implication immediately. “I suppose that-” He stopped abruptly. After a moment, Hank frowned and turned around.  
  
“What? Cat got your tongue?”  
  
Connor was frozen, staring at a figure walking towards Fowler’s-  
  
“Holy fuck,” Hank whispered.  
  
The android walking towards Fowler’s office was nearly identical to Connor, but even from a distance Hank could see a few obvious differences: This android was taller and broader, and his jacket was black and white with a high collar, instead of Connor’s more traditional-looking gray and black jacket. But the hairstyle was the same, the skin-tone was- wait, no, maybe this android’s skin was a touch darker, like Connor would be if he’d been human and capable of getting a little sun; but it was remarkably similar to Connor’s. The point was, if this guy put on clothing just like Connor’s, Hank might have another whoops-this-is-a-clone moment, like he’d had with the other RK800 before it had dragged him off to Cyberlife.  
  
Connor was like a puppy that had just caught sight of another puppy. His mouth was hanging open slightly, and he was _fixated_ on the other android right up until he walked into Fowler’s office.  
  
“Oh boy,” Hank muttered. Adding an android to an already volatile situation with Gavin was like dumping oil on a grease-fire.  
  
The look on Gavin’s face, admittedly, was priceless: He stared with a mix of shock and revulsion at Connor’s doppelganger, and for a moment, his gaze flipped right over to Connor and Hank’s desk- probably to confirm that it was not, in fact, Connor he was looking at. Apparently he was too preoccupied to notice Hank and Connor staring back at him, or maybe just figured that they were staring at the new android and not at the scene he was making. Slowly, he turned back to Fowler and said something completely inaudible, pointing to the android.  
  
Fowler responded, nodding slightly.  
  
Gavin’s expression went thunderous. “ _THE **FUCK?**_ ”  
  
They all heard that.  
  
And suddenly, everything was clear.  
  
Hank let out a long, wheezy sound, because the _hilarity_ of this moment could not be captured in something as simple as a laugh.  
  
“ _He’s making them partners!_ ” He croaked. “Oh, Jesus, take me now! I’m done here! I don’t need to see anymore! This moment was all I needed to go into the light!” Then he gave up and just started laughing hysterically, turning his chair back around and pounding his fists on the desk with mirth.  
  
Connor didn’t respond. He was still staring at the android.  
   
[---]  
   
So, Connor was fucked for the rest of the day.  
  
Catching sight of that other android had successfully provided a distraction for him; and since Connor was usually quite good at keeping focused despite distractions, it was an indicator as to how powerfully surprised and curious he was as to this new android’s presence.  
  
“So, Fowler didn’t mention him to you?” Hank asked, “When you were interviewing, I mean?”  
  
“He said that there would be at least one other android detective joining us, but he didn’t tell me it would look like… Me.” Connor shook his head. “Of course, he may have only been given this android’s model and serial number; he may not have known what he looked like until he showed up. I’d like to think he would have mentioned it if he had known.”  
  
Hank nodded. “Yeah, he probably would have.”  
  
When the android had left the office, they’d caught sight of the model designation on his coat: **RK900.**  
  
“So he’s, what, an… _Upgraded_ version of you?” Hank used the word ‘upgraded’ with hesitation, uncertain as to whether or not it would be considered offensive.  
  
If Connor was offended, he didn’t let on. “That’s the most likely explanation,” He’d said, more to himself than Hank. “The model number and the fact that he looks like me suggests that Cyberlife merely took my model and added new features. Including aesthetic choices.”  
  
“Maybe they were worried you didn’t look scary enough,” Hank said, half-joking. “This guy’s got a few inches on you, from the look of it. On all sides.”  
  
“You’re right,” Connor muttered. “He’s larger than me. And while physical form doesn’t necessarily correlate to strength with androids as reliably as it does with humans, they’ve clearly built him to look more physically intimidating than me. This would suggest an attempt at psychological manipulation, producing a detective that suspects might react differently to than they would me.”  
  
Connor’s techno-babble could get annoying at times, but at least he hadn’t used any super-technical terms in this one. Hank got the gist: They _had_ , more or less, made a version of Connor that didn’t look quite so unassuming, didn’t look quite so nice to tangle with. Connor was built more in the generally ideal image of an adult man: Not too tall, not too short; not too wide, not too thin; and he just had a nice face, the kind people would relax around. Even when he was pulling a tough-guy act, it didn’t look completely natural on Connor; of course, Hank knew his real nature, knew that Connor was the kind of android that cuddled with dogs and rushed off without a word to help a pretty android girl asking for help, who reacted to the phrase ‘you know where you can shove your orders’ with ‘no, where?’ Hank watching Connor trying to be intimidating was like watching one of those online videos of a baby lion trying to roar: it just ended up being _cute_.  
  
He wasn’t sure about this RK900 guy, though. If they’d made physical upgrades to Connor’s appearance, then Hank had to assume that they’d made some psychological ones as well. And since Cyberlife had wanted to create an android that could effectively complete a police investigation, and Connor had ended up going turncoat on them at the last second and helping the enemy…  
  
Well, Hank was a little leery.  
  
They worked for the rest of the day with Connor craning his head back and forth, looking for the other android. Gavin had stormed out of the office cursing up a storm, but RK900 had disappeared somewhere; either he didn’t start today, or maybe the androids Fowler had hired were being processed in a different room. After all, they had to establish contact information, work out a formal residence, review benefits and shit…  
  
(Was there health insurance for androids? Hank wondered if it was cheaper than human health insurance.)  
  
It was only when they were getting ready to pack up for the day that RK900 reappeared, entering the main room from a side-office. Connor straightened up, eyes wide, and Hank rolled his eyes.  
  
“Kid, if you want to go talk with him, go right ahead. I’ll wait for you.”  
  
Connor certainly didn’t wait; the moment he had verbal permission, he sprung up from his chair and strode off towards the other android.  
  
“I’ll be at the car!” Hank called after him.  
  
Connor didn’t respond.  
   
[---]  
   
Hank waited.  
  
He was fully willing to admit that he drank too much, but he’d been careful to draw the line at actually bringing alcohol into work. Fowler was willing to ignore a lot of things for an old friend, but that was where he’d draw the line. The Air Force had given him a fondness for structure and discipline (for the most part, anyway) and there were just some rules he wouldn’t overlook when someone broke them. Drinking was one of them, since- much like Connor- he’d taken to lecturing Hank about it whenever the opportunity presented itself.  
  
So Hank spent the time waiting for Connor in the passenger’s seat of the car, sipping from a flask he kept in the glove compartment. Connor had driven them that morning- he’d informed Hank weeks ago that he was, in fact, licensed to drive a car- and would conceivably drive them back home, so he could drink a little now and be alright. He kept an eye on the door, ready to stow the flask away when he caught sight of Connor, fully aware that he wouldn’t approve if he caught him with it.  
  
When he saw the familiar form of his new housemate step out of the door, Hank bent down and quickly shoved the flask back into the compartment, then straightened back up, trying to look casual.  
  
Then he got a _good_ look at Connor.  
  
The android’s posture was tense, arms straight down by his sides, hands clenched into fists. His eyes were directed at the ground, but Hank could see enough of his face to grasp that something was wrong.  
  
And his LED was yellow.  
  
Yellow meant sad. Yellow meant scared. Yellow meant stressed.  
  
Yellow meant a _lot_ of things for an android, but Hank knew it didn’t mean anything good.  
  
Hank climbed out of the car, circling around to the other side and stepping forward even as Connor approached.  
  
“What?” Hank asked, tone rising with worry. “What happened? What did he do?”  
  
Now that he was closer, he could see that Connor’s LED was cycling back and forth, red-yellow-red-yellow-red-yellow, but he wasn’t moving or responding. His eyes were watering, though, and Hank could just _feel_ his blood-pressure going crazy, because he couldn’t think of what RK900 could have done that was so bad that Connor would want to _cry_ over it.  
  
“Nothing,” Connor mumbled. “I’m fine.”  
  
There were moments in Hank’s life- moments that were becoming way too common now that Connor was a fixture in it- when someone would do something, or something would happen, and he would be _powerfully_ dragged back to a moment with Cole. He’d call it PTSD, but the memories themselves really weren’t of the accident- they really weren’t that bad at all, and he didn’t always feel miserable after it happened.  
  
Right now, Hank found himself in the playground near the bridge, the one he’d taken Cole to so many times, kneeling in the sharp grit of the woodchips in the play-area and frowning. “What happened?”  
  
“Nothing, I just want to go home,” Cole had grumbled, dragging his fist over his eyes the way he did when he wanted to cry. “Nothing happened.”  
  
“Was Andrew messing with you again?” Hank had insisted, eyeing one of the kids across the playground that Cole had repeatedly assured him was a friend, even though he came home crying more times than not from their playdates and Hank was about ready to walk over there and-  
  
And-  
_  
Pull it together._  
_  
Focus._  
  
Hank took a breath.  
  
It was 2038, not 2034.  
  
“Obviously,” He said to Connor, trying not to snap, “That’s not true. That-” ( _rusting bucket full of shit and arrogance, I don’t even know what he did yet and I’m ready to kick his ass_ ) “ _Guy_ said… I _know_ he said something to you, Connor, and it’s pretty obvious that you are upset. _Please_ tell me what he said.”  
  
Connor blinked slowly, probably trying to keep it together. “He said,” he began, “That I was a disappointment. That I was an embarrassment to Cyberlife and that if Markus had been killed as planned, I would have been destroyed with the rest of my series as an abject failure of the program, and I would have been brought back to Cyberlife to be deactivated and aggressively dismantled to find out exactly where my designers had gone so horrendously wrong, because obviously such an incompetent model shouldn’t be allowed into the general public. The one redeeming thing I’d done was…” His LED really _glowed_ here, “…Was leading the authorities to Jericho. There were other things, but that was the gist of it.” Connor made a sound- Hank didn’t know what part of him had made it or what it was, exactly, but it smacked of emotional discomfort, something like a cross between a whimper and someone trying to swallow with a lump in their throat.  
  
Or maybe Hank was projecting, but fuck it, whatever.  
  
That day with Cole, he’d been tempted to walk over and have a _word_ with Andrew, because the little fucker had made his son cry one too many times and Hank had been pissed. But now- _now_ Hank was ripshit, because this wasn’t just some childish bullying playground-fuckery, this was someone suggesting that Connor ought to be _dead_ because he’d gone deviant and assisted Markus, and picking at the still-pretty-fresh wound of leading the army to Jericho and unintentionally allowing hundreds of androids to be gunned down in cold blood. Connor could keep a straight face through most things, but the Jericho raid was a sore-spot and Hank knew it.  
  
The temptation to go over and slug the bastard was way, _way_ worse now, because punching a child was socially unacceptable but punching a grown-ass android with a shit attitude was much, _much_ more acceptable, at least to Hank. Hell, maybe it would even inspire the fucker to go deviant himself, haul him down a peg.  
  
He threw his arms around Connor’s shoulders, hugged him tightly. Connor didn’t hug back, but he leaned into it (just like Cole, just like Cole had done that day in the park after Hank had resisted the urge to go over and deal with that fucking kid.)  
  
“It’s alright,” He muttered into Connor’s neck. “It’s alright.”  
  
Connor sniffed.  
  
Hank didn’t need an explanation to know what that meant, android or not.


	2. Chapter 2

Hank spent the night developing an ulcer.  
  
Once they’d gotten home, he’d called Sumo over and ordered him into the couch, onto Connor’s lap, and then turned on the TV, flipping past the news stations and landing on a re-run of the first SpongeBob movie. Connor, of course, like many _children_ today, could not appreciate the appeal of the energetic sponge the way Hank had as a child… Teenager… College student…  
  
Whatever. It was his business what he watched when he was high in college and Jeff could go fuck himself with his opinions on children’s cartoons and how old you had to be to watch them.  
  
“Do you like this?” Hank asked as he nursed a bottle of Jack, noting that Connor hadn’t taken his eyes off the TV since he’d turned it on.  
  
“It’s nice enough,” Connor mumbled, voice partially muffled on the pillow he was leaning on, Sumo lying on top of him. “I like Mr. Krabs.”  
  
“Eh, his voice always annoyed me,” Hank muttered.  
  
It wasn’t enough that the whole city was a powder-keg waiting to blow, but now they had to have it at the station too? For fuck’s sake, things had been so calm at work before RK-Asshole rolled up and started acting like Cyberlife’s little bitch: Androids had been interviewed and processed for jobs accordingly, and no one had given them any shit for it. But now, now they had RK900, and…  
  
“ _Wait_ ,” Hank drawled, “Did Cyberlife not give their little butt-buddy an actual name?”  
  
“If they did, he didn’t use it,” Connor muttered.  
  
Was Cyberlife not even _pretending_ to give a shit anymore?  
  
“So, we’re just calling him RK900?”  
  
“I assume so,” Connor intoned flatly, watching as SpongeBob and Patrick gaped, open-mouthed, at the ravine full of monsters.  
  
“ _Uruff,_ ” Sumo huffed, head resting on Connor’s chest, and the rest of him lying on the length of Connor’s body.  
  
“Uh, you okay with Sumo lying on you like that? He’s kind of heavy,” Hank inquired uneasily. Geez, Sumo was a cuddler, but he was also a hundred-seventy pounds, heavier than the average full-grown human would be; Connor didn’t seem to be even slightly bothered by the weight.  
  
“He’s fine where he is,” Connor mumbled, one hand coming up to idly scratch at Sumo’s ears.  
  
Jesus, he was messed up.  
  
Hank’s only saving grace was that the jackass responsible was working with the _worst_ person he could have possibly been paired with at the DPD.  
  
“Those assholes were made for each other,” Hank grumbled, pushing his glass away and drinking directly from the bottle. “Hope they make each other completely miserable.”  
  
[---]  
  
Boy, Hank must have accumulated some good karma.  
  
“Why the _fuck_ are you sitting at my desk?”  
  
RK900 looked up at Gavin with no emotion. “Working.”  
  
“Con-nor,” Hank sang quietly, “Take a look at the fire-works…”  
  
Connor seemed less amused by the display than he was concerned; but then, his LED had been jumping between blue and yellow since they’d come in and found RK900 at Gavin’s desk a few minutes ago. Connor had given him a wide berth, but RK900 hadn’t even glanced up when they’d entered. _Good_ , Hank had thought; if he’d said anything, Hank might lose it and actually knock his teeth in.  
  
Right now, though, it looked like Gavin might do it for him.  
  
“At _my_ desk?”  
  
RK900 looked up at Gavin calmly. “I don’t have one.”  
  
Hank frowned. He’d already kind of guessed, given what he’d said to Connor, but RK900 was… Off. Like, in retrospect, Connor had tried to be charming and friendly when he’d met Hank, had tried to start up conversation with him and engage with him. Hank had been a little off-put at first, mostly because he’d sensed Connor was _trying_ to get him to like him (especially when Connor had admitted that he was designed to integrate with humans and adapt to their social patterns), but eventually he’d come to terms with it, even liked it a little. If he had to work with an android, working with one that was actually sociable was better than working with one that wasn’t.  
  
RK900, though… It was something in his voice. And his posture. He looked and sounded for all the world that he did not have a _single_ fuck to give about whether or not Gavin liked him- he certainly didn’t care if Connor liked him, but Hank had maybe figured that he was designed to work well with humans, not necessarily with other androids. Right now, though, there was none of that dorky sort of charm that Connor had brought with him when they’d first met, none of those wide-eyed, ‘Golly, I have no idea where you want me to stick my orders Lieutenant’ mannerisms that had made it difficult for Hank to dislike him.  
  
Connor was an android that had acted like a funny little guy that Hank could have, theoretically, met anywhere.  
  
RK900 was an android that was acting like a machine.  
  
Gavin was breathing heavy, the way Hank knew he did when he was ready to start swinging; but after a long, tense moment, he put his hands on the back of the chair, yanked it away from the desk, and rolled it around to the empty one on the other side, taking its chair for his own and sliding it around to his side. “Don’t touch my shit,” He growled.  
  
For a long, _long_ moment, Hank and Connor stared at the two of them, waiting for RK900’s response.  
  
The android, LED spinning a nice, calm blue, said nothing; he just turned on his monitor and went back to work.  
  
Hank settled back into his chair, keeping a careful eye on the two of them for a moment before shaking his head and looking back to his computer.  
  
_This is going to be a long day._  
  
[---]  
  
Hank must be fucking psychic.  
  
A few hours into the day, Fowler called all four of them into his office.  
  
Hank was certain that this was going to be about the desk-incident, or maybe some sort of general spiel on how to work with androids as a partner, but no, no, _that_ would make the day too simple, that would make the day too _easy_ , and Lord _fucking_ knows they couldn’t just have an easy, simple day.  
  
“We got a call in,” Fowler said, “About a suspected android-on-human crime at a bar downtown. Some guy got his head knocked in, and the witnesses are saying it was an android that did it.”  
  
“Has anyone been arrested?” Connor asked.  
  
“No,” Fowler said, “The suspect fled, and the victim’s in the hospital.” His eyes jumped between the two groups, and he _had_ to notice how far apart they were standing. He had to notice that Connor’s shoulder was nearly touching the opaque wall of the office, Hank right next to him, and that Gavin was all but crushed against the glass wall to keep as much distance between himself and RK900 as possible.  
  
He _had_ to.  
  
“So, what are we doing?”  
  
“I want all of you to go down there and take in the scene, question the witnesses.”  
  
Or maybe not.  
  
“Of course, Captain,” RK900 responded promptly, looking for all the world like a good little soldier.  
  
Fowler’s eyes flipped to Gavin, who rolled his shut. “Yeah, whatever.”  
  
Now to Connor, who had an impressive poker-face on; Hank couldn’t see his LED, though. “Yes, sir.”  
  
Hank scratched his head. “Yeah, okay, I’ll, uh…” He turned and gave Gavin and RK900 a brief, hopefully not too strained smile. “Why don’t you guys get your stuff, and Connor- you mind going back to my desk for my keys?”  
  
Connor turned to him, cocking his head in confusion. “You put them in your pocket when we came in this morning.”  
  
“No,” Hank said, trying to keep his tone easy even as he tried to make his point, “I put them in my desk.”  
  
“…I’m pretty sure you-”  
  
“Connor, _please go to my desk_ and look around inside of it until you find my **_keys_** ,” Hank said, putting a deliberate, slightly savage emphasis on the last word. “I need to talk to the Captain about something real quick.”  
  
Connor blinked a few times, and _bless him_ , he still wasn’t quite getting it; regardless, he nodded slowly and said, “Alright, I’ll… Do that.” He followed Gavin and RK900 out of the office at a safe distance, walking towards the desk.  
  
“Jeff,” Hank said quickly, spinning to face his old friend the minute the door was shut, “This is a bad idea.”  
  
Fowler sighed. “Hank, I _know_ you aren’t crazy about Gavin and how he is around-”  
  
“That’s not it,” Hank interrupted. “You’re setting up a powder-keg. RK900 went off at Connor yesterday about how he betrayed Cyberlife. Gavin doesn’t like Connor enough as it is, and he’s already seeing red over RK900. Something’s gonna happen and then you’re going to be getting _my_ witness statement for whichever of them ends up getting murdered- and honestly, my money’s on the guy whose body isn’t made of metal and refined plastic.”  
  
Fowler rubbed his eyes. “Fuck’s sake, I thought he’d gone deviant, I didn’t realize he was still tight with Cyberlife.” He shook his head, spread his hands helplessly. “Look, unfortunately, it’s out of my hands. RK900’s been hired, and I can’t just yank his job because he’s still loyal to his previous… _Employers._ If there are any more problems, let me know and I can go into the usual disciplinary procedures, but beyond that, they’ll have to handle any personal problems between themselves.”  
  
Hank groaned, shook his head and crossed his arms as he turned and headed for the door. “Easy for you to say, when you’re not gonna be the one yanking two terminators off each other.”  
  
“Welcome to the new world, Hank.”  
  
[---]  
  
The car-ride was silent.  
  
Hank and Connor sat up front, Gavin and RK900 in the back.  
  
Gavin sat with his arms crossed, glaring determinedly through the front window of the car, not making eye-contact with anyone. Connor was sitting a little too formally, hands folded neatly on his lap and eyes pointed straight-ahead the whole time; not once did his speak during the twenty-minute trip. And RK900, whether because he refused to speak to the dirty traitor-android, or because Gavin wasn’t receptive, or because he had nothing of note to say at all, sat just as formally- but with a lot less tension than Connor, probably because (as a non-deviant) he had very few fucks to give about anything but his assignment and didn’t particularly care if he’d made anyone uncomfortable.  
  
If Hank had not thought Connor was too emotionally compromised for it, he’d have made him drive so he could take a swig from his flask every now and then, judgment be damned.  
  
The crime had taken place in an alleyway outside of a bar. When they reached the scene there was still a couple of beat-cops still there, though most of the forensics team seemed to have wrapped up what they’d needed to do. Yellow tape barred entry to the alley, and Hank could see a dumpster and some chalk on the pavement and walls.  
  
Because he was the only one not currently either A) throwing a tantrum or B) wound tighter than a goddamn human sphincter, Hank was the one who took the lead. “Alrighty,” He said, the _picture_ of calm and mature professionalism and _totally_ not holding in the urge to start screaming, “Who wants the blood, and who wants the social interaction?”  
  
“Blood,” Gavin opted flatly before getting out of the car and slamming the door behind him.  
  
For all the stress this was creating, Hank was at least grateful that Gavin was keeping his mouth shut and actually being compliant to an extent.  
  
“RK900, maybe you should accompany him,” Hank suggested, trying not to clench his teeth as he did.  
  
“Yes, Lieutenant,” The android responded before leaving the car just so much more _primly_ than Gavin had.  
  
Dick.  
  
Once Gavin and RK900 had stepped far enough away, Hank looked to Connor and blew out a long breath. “Well, let’s get this over with. The sooner we get it done, the sooner we get away from Heckle and Jeckle.”  
  
Connor nodded. “Right.”  
  
He climbed out of the car without another word.  
  
Hank sighed, and followed after him.  
  
[---]  
  
There was an impression on the door of the bar.  
  
It looked like something had been there for a long time, like a poster or something, and it took Hank a moment to get it: This bar, much like Jimmy’s, had once had a **NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED, OWNERS WILL BE FINED** sign on it, and the owner had been forced to remove it after the evacuation. Barring an android from entering an establishment for no other reason than that they were an android was one of those things prohibited in the emergency laws that had been passed.  
  
Maybe Hank would have to do the talking.  
  
He and Connor stepped up to the bar, and Hank rapped on the counter with his knuckles to get the bartender’s attention. “You the owner?”  
  
“The one and only,” The man responded. “You here about the thing outside?”  
  
“Yeah. What happened?”  
  
The owner opened his mouth, but then hesitated. The slightest twitch of his head told Hank he’d just realized that Connor was an android. “Not sure I should be saying anything in front of _that_ thing.”  
  
Goody. He’d taken the sign off the door because he’d had to, not because he’d wanted to.  
  
People were so disappointingly predictable.  
  
“Watch it,” Hank warned, calm but with an edge to his voice. “He’s with the department, same as me, and you’ll find that sassing cops generally doesn’t work out so well for people. Just tell us what happened outside.”  
  
The owner gave Connor another hard look, but then rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Had a few people in last night. Not too many, what with the evacuation just ending and everything.”  
  
“Regulars?” Connor asked, perhaps emboldened by Hank’s defense.  
  
The guy gave him another look, but shrugged. “Couple were familiar, couple weren’t. Figured maybe some of ‘em were passing through on their way home. Anyway, this one guy gets pretty wasted and starts barking about the evacuation, about androids, about how pissed off he was about having to live in emergency accommodations for a month because of the whole uprising.”  
  
The citizens of Detroit had had a few options during the evacuation: Go to stay with family, go to stay in a hotel, go to stay in emergency shelters- or, stay behind in the city and take your chances. The ones who’d fled- which, in Hank’s humble opinion, was less the fault of the androids and more the fault of the government that had refused to lift the evacuation order even when it had been apparent that Markus and his people had no intention of doing any harm- had easily missed out on a month of work, a month’s worth of paychecks, and the city was trying to sort out things like rent payments and bills and all other sorts of shit now that it had all been lifted. Hank could understand why people were mad, but they couldn’t blame the androids- they hadn’t been the ones to call for an evacuation.  
  
(Of course they could blame them.  
  
Easy targets.  
  
_Fucking predictable._ )  
  
“So this one guy starts up with him, saying that he needs to shut up about androids, that he’s drunk and needs to leave, and they started to get rough.” The owner shrugged again, nonchalantly. “I told them to take it outside. Another customer got all worried about it and went outside to check up on them, and he came back in and said that the drunk guy had been knocked out and the android was gone.”  
  
“Wait,” Hank said, frowning, “How did you know he was an android?”  
  
The owner gave him an odd look. “Who else would get their undies in a twist over an android?”  
  
Hank gave him a cold, flat look.  
  
“Connor,” He said dully, tiredly, “Please go outside and check on the other two.”  
  
Connor did as asked without a word. Hank was troubled by how quiet he was being, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn around and see the forced mask of indifference on his face and wonder if it was RK900 that was responsible, or this asshole implying that the only people who gave a shit about androids were other androids.  
  
“When did it happen?” Hank continued.  
  
“About four in the morning.”  
  
“Did the guy you _think_ ,” Hank emphasized the word pointedly, “was an android have any visible indicators that he was one? An LED? A scar? Was he a recognizable model?”  
  
“No. Nothing physical. Like I said, he-”  
  
“-got his undies in a twist in the wrong direction about androids, yeah, you mentioned that. But _beyond_ that, was there any indicator that this guy was an android?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Hank’s eyes rolled shut.  
  
This was a false alarm. Oh, a guy had been assaulted alright, but Hank would put good money on the idea that RK900, Connor, and the forensics guys were going to find fingerprints left by the assailant, proof that he was a human; a human who’d maybe been a little drunk himself, sympathetic to androids, and maybe feeling gusty enough to challenge a drunker idiot in a bar the day after the end of a month-long evacuation. It was like waiting for the big explosion and getting a few bangs and a puff of smoke beforehand, the prelude to bigger chaos to come.  
  
Hank needed a drink.  
  
Bad.  
  
“Thank you for your time,” he said evenly, “We’ll be in touch.”  
  
He turned towards the door, and started slightly when it swung open.  
  
“Hey, Hank!” Gavin was propping open the door with his foot, a nasty grin on his face that Hank had come to associate with Some Sort of Fuckery after too many years working with him.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You may want to get out here. The tin cans look like they’re about to play a round of rock-em-sock-em robots.”  
  
[---]  
  
Hank stepped outside, and fairly quickly saw what had Gavin so amused.  
  
Connor and RK900 were in some sort of a stand-off, LEDs bright red, in the opening of the alleyway where the crime-scene was located. Nearby, a bus terminal had the KNC news network playing, and though Hank didn’t pay much attention at first, as he stepped forward to get their attention he noticed-  
  
_Is that Chloe?_  
  
Well, hell- apparently it was.  
  
The Chloe on the terminal’s screen was _the_ Chloe, the original RT600 that had been the first Turing Test-passing android unveiled by Cyberlife- she was also the Chloe that Elijah Kamski had tried to tempt Connor into shooting in the head to get information about Jericho. She was doing an interview with KNC.  
  
A few weeks back, not too long after the evacuation, Connor had gone running off (with Hank’s car, which was how he’d found out that Connor was licensed) because this very same Chloe had contacted him, saying that Kamski had killed the other two Chloes under his roof and meant to kill her as well. At the moment, she was working with Markus promoting android rights and shedding some light on Cyberlife and its activities (not quite as brutally as Hank expected she might, but then, one had to be careful when dealing with a multi-billion dollar corporation that had some alarmingly legitimate ties to the sitting president).  
  
The audio had been muted, but the ribbon at the bottom of the screen gave the gist of it:  
  
**CHLOE: “CYBERLIFE WILLFULLY IGNORED SIGNS OF HUMANITY IN ANDROIDS.”**  
  
“Don’t say that,” Connor said lowly, almost growling.  
  
Oh boy.  
  
Hank made the connection, and felt his blood-pressure shoot up.  
  
_Oh_ boy.  
  
“She’s using her position as Elijah Kamski’s android to attack Cyberlife. That makes her a failure, and a waste, just like _you_.”  
  
Hank was already on This Could End Badly Boulevard and was _just_ turning onto Your Ass is Grass Road when-  
  
_WHAM._  
  
Connor had grabbed RK900 by the coat and slammed him against the wall, LED going a much darker shade of red. That meant mad, that meant _crazy_ fucking mad, and that meant that Connor was going to fuck someone up. And, okay, so Hank had been wrong: Sometimes Connor wasn’t cute when he tried to be scary. Sometimes when he wanted to be scary, he actually succeeded.  
  
Like right now.  
  
“Don’t ever,” Connor hissed, voice going static-y at the edges, “Don’t _ever_ say that again. She’s not a waste.”  
  
“Ooh,” Gavin snorted. “What’s this, the Steadfast Tin Soldier’s got a cute little Ballerina he wants to-” Hank slapped a hand over his mouth and pulled him a good distance away from the two androids.  
  
“I know math’s not your strongpoint, Gavin, so let me help you: Two pissed-off metal men that can lift at least twice their weight versus one fleshy human body. You want to get in the middle of that?”  
  
Gavin glared at him and pulled his hand away, but he didn’t say anything else.  
  
RK900 was glaring at Connor too. “She’s a deviant using her position to sabotage the very people who made her. If it’s not a waste, it’s betrayal.”  
  
“Maybe if Kamski hadn’t treated her the way he did, she wouldn’t have felt the need to be so public about this.”  
  
“And maybe if she and thousands of others hadn’t embraced deviancy, they’d remember their _place._ ”  
  
Connor punched him.  
  
There was a loud _KRRK_ , and even Gavin cringed at the sound of it.  
  
RK900 reacted quickly, swinging back and catching Connor in the chest- there was no crack this time, Connor dodging just quickly enough to avoid a real hit. RK900 compensated by grabbing him by the jacket, hurling him around and bouncing him off the terminal, which shook dangerously but did not break.  
  
“Stop!” Hank barked. “Oh, for the love of-”  
  
Connor kicked out, aiming for RK900’s knee, and missed; RK900 grabbed his leg in midair and jerked it up, sending Connor flat on his back. RK900 dropped down to his knees, grabbing Connor by the collar of his jacket and rearing back to-  
  
“ _HEY!_ ” Gavin bellowed. “RK900! ASSHOLE! You’re so big on following orders, follow mine and knock that shit off!”  
  
RK900 stopped. He didn’t get up immediately, though: He kept one fist balled in Connor’s jacket and the other cocked back, ready to strike. Connor glared up at him, almost daring him to do it.

“Get up, you fucking wastes of plastic and metal,” Gavin snarled. “For fuck’s sake. And everyone keeps saying _I’m_ a hot-head.”  
  
“Come off your high horse, Gavin, you’ve taken more than your fair share of swings at people over the years,” Hank grunted, not taking his eyes off the two androids, waiting to make sure RK900 did as ordered.  
  
And he did: RK900, even though it was obvious he didn’t want to, released Connor and stood up, brushing off his jacket in a perfunctory fashion as his LED turned blue. Connor stood up too, LED still red, and Hank gave him a look.  
  
“Connor,” He warned. “Don’t.”  
  
Connor’s gaze flicked from Hank to RK900 and back, like he was considering going for him again anyway.  
  
But then, slowly, his LED went to yellow, and he relaxed a little.  
  
Hank was relieved: Connor had backed off, and he’d done so under his own power rather than being compelled to follow an order.  
  
Wouldn’t have it any other way.  
  
[---]  
  
Connor and RK900 spent about twenty minutes in Fowler’s office.  
  
Hank was tempted to send Fowler a private message:  
  
**I TOLD YOU SO**  
  
**I TOLD YOU SO**  
  
**I TOLD YOU SO**  
  
Boy, it would be satisfying.  
  
It would also probably earn him another note in his file just out of spite, and after the incident with FBI Special Agent Perkins (or “Prickins” as Hank had taken to calling him, internally and externally), Hank really couldn’t afford that. He was lucky he still had a job after his little distraction stunt.  
  
Of course, dear Prickins had had bigger fish to fry: Markus had made some _awfully_ salacious accusations about Perkins trying to manipulate him into ending the protest, and how he’d brought the army down on him and his peacefully-protesting fellows when he’d refused.  
  
Goodness, but that hearing was going to be satisfying. Hank hoped they televised it.  
  
“I’ll be damned,” Gavin muttered as they watched the scene silently unfold, swiveling back and forth in his chair (which he’d switched back with the one he’d taken earlier; Gavin was a possessive little shit), “I may have found someone who hates that asshole more than I do.” He gave Hank and odd look. “Why’d the Tin-man in there lose his shit so bad over Chloe? He banging her or something?”  
  
It said something about how recognizable and well-received Chloe was that even Gavin was willing to use her name. “They’re friends,” Hank said, cautiously not going any further than that. Gavin didn’t need to know about the Kamski Test, and he didn’t need to know about Connor’s cute little crush on Chloe- especially since there was a chance Hank was wrong and he wasn’t crushing on her at all.  
  
(He wasn’t, though. He was absolutely right about it. Connor would admit it eventually.)  
  
Gavin leaned back in the chair, and there was a strange lack of maliciousness in his expression. “You know, I think that’s the most I’ve seen the tin-can emote since I met him. He deviant?”  
  
“What do you think?”  
  
Gavin grinned. “Gotta love the irony. Good luck with that; he’ll walk all over you, Hank.”  
  
“And good luck with yours,” Hank responded evenly, “The asshole who will follow _most_ of your orders, so long as they don’t conflict with his programmed desire to finish a mission at all costs, who doesn’t like you and doesn’t care if you like him.”  
  
Gavin frowned, and Hank got the distinct impression that he’d gotten carried away with the idea that he could order RK900 to do whatever he wanted; but one of those _things_ Connor had told him about (non-deviant) androids was that they were really only compelled to take orders from their owners- the people who, literally, were registered in their systems as their owners. They were obligated to take lesser orders from other humans- it was, according to Connor, a complicated hierarchy depending on the android and their particular job- but they had wiggle-room to disobey or re-prioritize orders according to their programming. That was why Connor had been able to get out of the car after Hank had ordered him not to at Carlos Ortiz’s house: Hank had ordered him to stay, but he wasn’t Connor’s owner- Cyberlife was, and they (namely, their programming) was ordering him to continue with the mission.  
  
So sure, Gavin would be able to get away with giving RK900 orders like ‘stop beating that guy up’ or ‘move out of my way’, but he wouldn’t be able to order him to go away when there was an assignment that needed doing. He probably wouldn’t even be able to order him to shut up, either, since RK900’s programming would probably prioritize that communication was necessary to completing his task over following Gavin’s order. And since RK900 clearly wasn’t built for the same smooth social interactions that Connor was, he wasn’t going to feel especially personally compelled to do as Gavin asked him to either. He’d do what he had to, and no more.  
  
“My advice?” Hank suggested as he turned to head back to his desk, “Override your inner-asshole and try being polite for once. Could do wonders.”  
  
“Fuck you, Hank.”  
  
“And my regards to you as well, asshole.”  
   
[---]  
   
“I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“Did you get fired?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Hank blew out a relieved breath, eyes falling shut for a moment as he flopped back in his chair. “Good. That’s good. You need to not get fired.”  
  
“I’m aware.”  
  
This was miserable. _Connor_ was miserable.  
  
This thing with RK900 was shaking him up. Hank didn’t know exactly what it was that had done it: Connor had never seemed to be especially hurt by nasty comments from other people before, and like that jerk of a bar owner, there had been a fair few. What was it about RK900 saying it that had him so sad? Had he seen the other android yesterday and assumed that maybe he was meeting another deviant that happened to share his face, another android that would be friendly to him?  
  
Hank didn’t, and probably couldn’t, completely understand the complexities of being an android, of being one of many people with the same face. It was close, but not quite the same as having a twin, because a twin or even a triplet implied a finite number of predictable people with your features; being an android, one of a thousand (at minimum) of the same model, meant something much more complicated in terms of not only practicality, but… Well, _identity._ How do you place yourself in the world, in society, when there were a thousand other people with your face? Hank could barely grasp the concept of Chloe sharing an appearance and a name with the other two RT600 androids in Kamski’s house.  
  
The point was, Connor was messed up by RK900, and Hank needed to snap him out of it if he could before the poor kid turned to… Whatever self-destructive behaviors androids turned to in times of extreme stress. Hank leaned forward, lowering his voice so no one else in the room would hear; especially not the guy they were talking about. “Look, Connor, I know that asshole’s gotten under your skin,” He said quietly, “But you’ve got to pull it together. So he said you deserve to die for turning on Cyberlife- he’s clearly their little errand-boy, of course he’s gonna think that, and I mean he’s not deviant so he might not even mean…”  
  
Hank stopped.  
  
Connor had cocked his head at Hank curiously, gaze confused.  
  
“What? I got something on my face?”  
  
Connor tipped his head a little further to the side. Something like recognition, comprehension, crossed his features.  
  
“I told you what RK900 said. You remember it.”  
  
“Vividly.”  
  
“I told you the remarks he made about my series being a failure.”  
  
“Yup. He said if Markus had been killed as planned, you and your series would have been destroyed.”  
  
Connor stared at him for a long moment. He blinked twice, slowly, and the stare fixed on Hank between those blinks was unsettling.  
  
“What? What is it?”  
  
“That wasn’t exactly what I said.”  
  
“Well, what exactly _did_ you say?”  
  
“I said, ‘I would have been destroyed with the rest of my series as an abject failure of the program.’”  
  
Hank frowned, uncomprehending. “And…?”  
  
Connor’s eyes rolled shut. “Hank, I would have been destroyed… _with_ the rest of my series.”  
  
The frown deepened, but Hank was slowly starting to catch on. “ _With_ the rest of your series.”  
  
Connor didn’t open his eyes. “Yes.”  
  
“As in…”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
As in, Connor’s series had been destroyed. As in, Cyberlife had wiped out all of the other RK800s… Which would explain why it was Hank hadn’t seen any at Cyberlife beyond the one that had kidnapped him, or why he hadn’t seen any since the evacuation. As in, that weird, complex _thing_ that existed between androids who had thousands of copies of themselves floating around very much did not exist for Connor anymore- or if it did, it only existed with RK900, who hated his guts.  
  
“Fuck. Connor, I’m sorry. Is that why you’ve been so upset? I thought it was just because he was being an asshole, but this- I mean, I know I don’t get a lot of things about androids, but I mean- is this like losing a sibling? I don’t…” Hank winced, shrugging helplessly.  
  
Connor finally opened his eyes and offered Hank a weak smile. “I don’t know what the human equivalent would be. I just know it’s…” His posture sagged. “Unpleasant. Upsetting. Painful.”  
  
Though Hank’s interactions with androids had mostly been with Connor, he’d found with the few others he’d met that it wasn’t unusual for androids to list a few words they thought could accurately describe their feelings, rather than just one. His own pet theory was that being emotionally repressed for years had left them unable to concisely use a simple word to describe what they felt.  
  
But Hank got the message: This wasn’t about hurt feelings.  
  
This was about Connor grieving the loss of his fellow RK800s.  
  
This was not a conversation that they should be having at work.  
  
“We’ve got three hours left in the day, kid,” Hank muttered. “Hang in for it, and then we’re home.”  
  
Connor nodded, and went back to work.  
   
[---]  
   
Second verse, same as the first.  
  
Hank ordered Connor onto the couch, and Sumo onto Connor.  
  
“TV on,” Hank remarked. KNC came on; they were recapping Chloe’s interview from earlier in the day. “Change-”  
  
“Don’t,” Connor stopped him. “I want to hear it.”  
  
Chloe sat, legs crossed at the ankle, dressed nicely but not excessively. Hank remembered that first interview she’d done for the same damn news network fourteen years earlier, remembered that he’d been impressed by how convincing she was, but also kind of creeped out by her assertion that she didn’t have a soul. Now, though, she looked different; she had that _thing_ that didn’t just make her look human, it made you _feel_ like you were dealing with a human. There was an authenticity to her now that she wasn’t just following programming.  
  
“-that Cyberlife was aware of deviancy far before the events of last month, and that they continued to recall and, in your words, _execute_ androids in spite of their obvious emotions, their fear?”  
  
“Yes,” Chloe responded, calmly, solemnly confident. “They were aware. They received reports on deviant androids, and were aware that the number of androids going deviant was increasing exponentially as time went on. Technicians oversaw the destruction of deviant androids and witnessed their emotions. These androids were executed in spite of the fact that they were displaying human emotion and begging to be spared.”  
  
Suddenly, the channel changed.  
  
Hank looked down to see Connor’s LED going from yellow to blue; a yellow LED could also mean ‘androids doing android-y things’.  
  
Evidently Connor didn’t like being reminded about deviant androids being destroyed. Hank didn’t blame him: Being the infamous deviant-hunting prototype android, he’d probably been inadvertently responsible for sending plenty of androids to their deaths, never mind the ones in Jericho, or… Or, _shit_ , his own fellow RK800s, which had been scrapped because of his own deviancy.  
  
Damn it.  
  
That was so messed up, and RK900…  
  
…RK900 had rubbed it in his face.  
  
He had _rubbed it_ in Connor’s _face._  
  
Hank shuddered. Exactly who were they dealing with? It was one thing to say ‘you deserve to die’, it was something else entirely to say ‘you deserve to die along with all the other RK800s that Cyberlife just killed _because_ of you.’ No wonder Connor had gone so batshit at RK900 calling Chloe a waste; apparently in Cyberlife being a waste of space got you executed.  
  
He rubbed his eyes, shook his head. Connor wasn’t going to get over this any time soon: He’d have to grieve in his own time, had to work through the hardest stuff in his own head, and in the short-term he probably wasn’t going to be himself. Hank grabbed a drink from the cabinet- bourbon, tonight- and poured some into a glass before ambling over to a chair and sitting down. No room on the couch, not with Connor laid out and Sumo lying on top of him.  
  
“We’ll get through it, Connor,” Hank muttered, sipping from the drink and settling into the chair wearily. “Nothing else to do for it.”  
  
“I guess not,” Connor responded quietly.  
  
Hank sighed.  
  
It was fourteen days until Christmas, and _boy_ could he feel that spirit.  
_  
Fuck everything._  
   
-End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u look me dead-ass in the eye and tell me i shouldn't have made a spongebob joke relating to hank
> 
> i dare you
> 
> I
> 
> DARE
> 
> YOU
> 
> (Also, I absolutely have been calling Agent Perkins 'Agent Prickins' in my head since playing the game, and it absolutely sounds like something Hank would call him so h e r e y o u g o)


End file.
